Delusion
by City Juice
Summary: America awakes one day to discover that he's been kidnapped by those he trusts the most. However, as the days drag on, and bizarre events continue to occur, America begins to question who is the real enemy in this situation. USUKUS, with a little bit of FrUs at some point. Minor gore. Three-shot
1. Chapter 1

America awoke with a start. A yellowing ceiling stared back at him. He turned his head, and moved his arms to stretch, only to find that they had been bound to the head of the bed. "What the…?" He breathed, pulling his arms against the ropes. "H-hey!"

For once, with all of his pulling and strength, nothing seemed to happen. He tried to kick his legs, but found they were bound too.

Finding he was able to turn his head, he decided to give the room a look over as best as possible. Dim light lit the room from an old pair of bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He found he was lying on a bed with pale pink sheets, and the walls had pale, pale yellow wallpaper, starting to crumple with age. The floors were standard hardwood, with an oval rug consuming most of the area in the middle. An antique dresser with a mirror sat across from him, and next to it was a window with the blinds drawn. A closed door stood at the end of the bed, and America could vaguely see another door near the bed out of the corner of his eye. Another door seemed to appear next to the first, and then another after that. America blinked, and the extra doors disappeared.

As America studied the room, the images began to twist. The walls merged, separated, and changed colours. A wave of images crashed over his eyes, things that didn't make sense flew through his mind. The ceiling fell on him, but it turned to water the second it touched his skin. The floor sunk away only to be replaced with grass a moment later. The walls lit up like Las Vegas, and laughter flowed from the vents.

A crowd of people snuck out of the corners, gathering around the bed to poke and jeer at him. They had no faces, though that didn't stop them from making awful comments. They joked about his appearance, his intelligence, his skills, his government, his diet- anything their terrible minds could come up with.

America yelled at them to stop. They were hurting his head. It felt as if they were crawling inside of his ears, planting their seeds of despair into his mind.

He swatted at the figures as best he could, cursing at them and calling them any names he could think of. While it didn't seem like the most educated approach, it still beat just sitting there.

Suddenly England was standing over him, talking. England wasn't England, it seemed. He seemed too tall, not big enough eyebrows, and since when did England wear robes of silk? Was his hair always to the floor? America tried to remember, but couldn't. England's hair suddenly retracted into his skull, until all of his skin followed suit, and then England blinked out of existence.

And then England reappeared, opened his mouth, and suddenly France was in his place, shoving food at him. When America looked at the food, it squirmed and screamed. France looked at America with his eyes watering, tears pouring out and creating pools at his feet. The pools grew, and filled the room, swallowing the bed. America cried out, an instinct-like fear of drowning gripping his heart and making him seize against the ropes. Then, all at once, the water evaporated. France stood, looking dumbfounded at America.

"Amérique?" He asked.

He suddenly began to age rapidly, becoming an old man, until he was crippled, falling to the bedside. And then he was back on his feet, a hand on America's face, his hair tickling America's nose.

America tried to speak, to ask what was going on, but his tongue wasn't cooperating. He tried to ask for help, but found it was in another language, and he tried to cry, but found only sand escaping from his eyes.

France blinked and turned into Canada, whose curled grew until it wrapped around his entire body. Canada spoke in a native dialect, and America responded in such. At least something was working out. But then Canada began to laugh, his mouth splitting wide in half, his head thrown back so forcefully that his neck split in half.

America screamed, waiting for blood to flow. Confetti shot out of the gaping hole, and with a poof, Canada disappeared, and England to returned in his spot.

England was low, wiping a rag over the American's face, trying to soothe him. Although America couldn't make out the words, he could tell that he was trying to help.

But then England began to smile, too big for any regular person, his teeth growing sharp, his mouth like that of the Cheshire cat's. "Don't worry, love, this will only be a pinch," he cackled, pulling a long thin knife from his waist-coat pocket, and jamming it into America's arm.

America howled in agony, fire searing through his veins. The world was burning, burning, burning. Oh god, they set the house on fire and left him here. He couldn't move. Could he move his face? Could he move his head? No, no, no! He wanted to yell, but couldn't. Where was the smoke? He could feel the flames licking at his skin, tasting before continuing their endeavour to consume him. He was going to burn to death and they would be joyous at his demise.

And then darkness.

Then next time America awoke, there was light coming in through the window. His eyes drifted to the sight, and his confusion tripled. It appeared that he was up high, in a building overlooking a thick jungle, his window stories above the tops of the trees.

He glanced down at his attire, confused. _Why was he wearing tight black skinny jeans? He'd never owned a pair before in his life. And his shirt- why was he wearing a vest and tie with a white button up? True, it was something he would have worn at some point, but it seemed odd to be bound to a bed in such attire. _

_Speaking of which_… America attempted to move his arms again, and this time found them not to be tied. He brought them down to his sides, sitting up to move to the window. Only, he found his legs still tied to the end of the bed. When he tried to touch the rope, his skin sizzled, and he pulled his hand away with a yelp.

_Ooookay. Not going to try that again anytime soon_, he thought, glumly slumping back down.

America's eyes wandered about the room, when he noticed another pair staring at him, from the ceiling to be more specific. The lights had been removed, and in their place were two bright blue eyes. They stared at him intently, as if waiting for a performance to begin.

The nation shuddered, and turned away from them, looking anywhere but directly at them. The ticking of the clock- had there always been a clock there?- took in his attention. It was 25:87, according to the clock. America frowned. Something seemed off about it, but he couldn't place his finger on it.

He happened to glance back at the eyes. Oh great, a nose joined them. Slowly, a face began to push its way through the ceiling, until an entire head hung down, still staring at America. Then, with a _pop!_ the head and rest of the body fell from the ceiling, and landed next to America.

A tall man with a white wig stood in front of the bewildered nation. He dusted himself off, and offered America a warm smile. "George?" America asked tentatively.

The man gave a curt nod. "Hello America. My, it's been a while, hasn't it?" he said, sitting down on the bed next to his nation.

"Like, 300 years, dude. Aren't you supposed to be kind of dead? Wait, are you a ghost?!" America said, paling at the thought. "Please don't possess me! I promise I've been good!"

Washington chuckled. "I'm not here to possess you, lad. I'm here to give you a warning."

"A warning?" America repeated.

"You are in danger." America's eyes jumped to the clock. Did it always have legs to go with the hands?

"Danger? From what?" America's eyes felt like they were swimming.

"The enemy." Washington said, his face serious and his eyes grave. The clock was kicking at the wall now. "You must not listen to them."

"Who? Who is the enemy?"

"Them." Washington gestured around the two of them, to the empty air. The clock began to crawl on the way. It was making its way towards the hole in the ceiling. "You will know them when you see them."

"I will?" America mentally cursed himself for sounding like a parrot. He didn't grow wings, did he?

George Washington nodded. "You will. It will be easy to tell them apart from the ones who are there to help."

America stared at him, confused. "What… what do you mean? What's going on?"

Washington laughed. "Always so full of questions! You haven't changed a bit!"

The clock had scuttled its way to the hole, and seemed to be nibbling at the plasters edges. Washington glanced up at the clock, ignoring the nation's question. "It looks like my time is, quite literally, up. I have to go."

Washington stood to leave, his gigantic state making him tower over America. "Wait!" the nation called, straining against the ropes on his arms. Damn, when did they reappear? Why did they have to be tied to the wall?

Washington paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

America stared at him for a minute. A million questions raced through his mind, but none seemed to be able to come out.

Washington smiled at him again with his warm smile. "It was nice to see you again, lad," he said softly, and then faded into dust. The clock was sucked up the hole. The gaping hole filled itself once more, and the lights grew back out of it.

America laid back down as best he could, and was soon overcome by the urge to sleep.

Although he wasn't sure how much time had passed, there was one thing he was sure he absolutely despised: America hated to wake up. He never knew what was going to greet him once he did. Reality never seemed like it was real any more, and even on the brief chances that it did, America was extremely sceptical of everyone.

He was sure he had figured out who it was now that Washington had warned him of. Of course, it wasn't too hard to figure out when they were the ones who came to your bedside when you're tied up.

For whatever reason America could fathom, England, France, and Canada had teamed up to take him down. They had tied him to a bed in another universe, it seemed, where nothing was ever the same. He blamed England, mostly, because who else could out them all in another dimension without all of the weird magic junk? Of course, America had contemplated escaping. However, he wasn't even sure if they were in the same world anymore, and where they could possibly be if so.

America learnt early on that most of the food that they were giving him was completely poisonous. Anything he tried to eat, his body immediately rejected it, and it was sent back up his throat not ten minutes later. And then the vomit would begin to increase, multiplying and growing and become a living species that threaten to engorge America's body.

_Yeah, waking up was definitely the worst thing._

Not only did he have to deal with the enemy constantly staring him down, but he also began to fear the dimensions changings. Sometimes there would be crowds of people in his room, whispering to each other but never approaching America. Sometimes, he woke up in a room where there was absolutely nothing, only white walls and filled with a complete void

The absolute worst as when he woke up surrounded by darkness. He couldn't see anything, he was certain he had gone blind, but then he saw them.

Hands, hundreds of pale, grotesque human hands began to float towards him. The hands were malformed, fingers gnarled, some with bone piercing through the skin, the nails bloodied and halfway falling off. They began to reach out to touch him, to grab at his clothes and his skin, to tug his hair and his ropes, to pinch his cheeks and scratch at his arms. They pulled at his limbs, trying to tear him apart.

He had screamed, howled, but it continued for hours- maybe even days. The ghostly hands never once stopped in their pursuit of ripping him apart. America was scared shitless.

When it felt like years had passed, the hands receded, back into the shadows, red sticking out against the pale white.

_Yeah, that had been one of the worst experiences. _

And oh, the wounds!

The ropes that seemed to tie his arms in a different position every day rubbed horribly so! His wrists dribbled puss and blood anytime he tried to move, and he bit his tongue to stop himself from yelling with pain. (Of course, that didn't stop him from complaining to his captors about them.)

He was certain that at some point he'd been ripped open, too, but he didn't see any blood from it, only a dull, throbbing pain straight down his middle. It was painful, but he didn't dare wish to beg for pain relief.

How could he let himself appear weak to his captors? True, he had screamed at multiple occasions, but he wasn't even completely sure that the whole hands thing had been their fault. Could have just been the dimension, after all. (_But if they put me in here, wouldn't that make that their fault then? _America often pondered this, but the thought would come in a fleeting second, before overcome with other things to think about.)

America's head was beginning to become clouded with the days, and he wasn't even sure if he was alive anymore. Perhaps he had somehow died and was being tortured for all eternity. That would make sense. He had done some pretty brutal things in his life time, many that he would be ashamed to admit. Hell seemed to be the only decent place to store a nation.

And what worse way to be tortured than to be hurt by those who you love?

Though… now that America thought about it, the three of them never really did anything to him _themselves_, not that he saw, anyway. But who else was to blame for this madness?

America woke up, and realised something odd. He was standing. Not only that, but the walls and the floor seemed to be replaced by sandpaper.

When he bent over to examine the sand paper, a loud grinding noise sounded, and the floor began to move. Like a treadmill, America thought, and began to walk. His shoeless feet began to screech in protest, but he could only imagine what would happen if he stopped moving.

The ground began to pick up pace, and soon America had to do a light trot to keep up. Nervous that this pattern would continue, America sprinted to the front most wall (or what he guessed was, it was a little hard to tell when all of the walls looked the same) and banged on it. "HEY! Let me out!" He yelled, throwing his body against the wall, only to fall and be carried backwards.

America immediately stood, and ran to the wall again. He tried to punch a hole in the wall, only for his hand to begin to bleed immensely.

He grunted in pain, and tried to jump kick the wall. The only thing that broke was America's hand as he fell. The flesh that met the moving sandpaper was torn, and began to ooze blood. _Shit shit shit shit shit._

The nation groaned as he pulled his hand to his chest, and kept up his light trot.

"No way out…" he breathed.

It seemed as though he had been placed in an impossible box. No exit, no entrance, and only a painful death awaiting him if he gave up.

America walked for days. His feet were torn up by the ground, the endless sandpaper eating away at his skin.

He no longer felt the pain, and felt numb in his mind.

America felt as his legs began to shake. One step later, America felt to the ground.

"No more…" he begged.

His body was slowly dragged to the back of the room.

America closed his eyes, waiting for the grinding to tear away at his back.

It never came. His back fazed through the wall.

America sat straight up in bed, and stared forward. A startled Canada looked back at him. "America?"

"Ungh…" America moaned. He held his hand out to Canada to look at. With a hideous _crack_ his wrist snapped.

"America!" Canada cried. America's eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell back into the bed.

Canada took in the appearance of his brother. Cotton pants, like always, a cotton t-shirt, and bruises covering every inch. His now broken wrist hung limply at his side, and his breath shuddered with every exhale.

"Oh America," Canada whispered, sponging off America's face, "What're you doing to yourself?"

"C'mon, America, you'll have to eat sooner or later," England coaxed, trying to spoon the soup into America's mouth.

America thrashed, turning his head away, biting down so hard on the inside of his cheek that the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. _Don't eat it, don't eat it, don't eat it, it will make you sick_ he told himself.

"America…" England said, a heartbroken look flitting across his face. However, as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared, leaving only a scowl in its place. "Fuck it, I'm getting the sodding needle," he snapped, standing abruptly, and surging from the room. Or, should he say tent?

America wasn't sure what year it was anymore. _Weren't they still in World War II? Wasn't that why they were in a tent? Germany had poisoned the food, right? And England… was on Germany's side? He was the enemy, he briefly remembered George Washington telling him that… wait, had he said that? Wasn't Washington dead- no wait, he had the clock with the hole in the ceiling, he had come back. _

America frowned. _Ceiling? What ceiling? They were in a tent, right? Hadn't they always been in a tent?_

America stared off into where England had run. His vision swirled, changing the tents colours. He could hear arguing, but the voices were unrecognisable.

_Tent… tent… tent… Where were all of the supplies?_ America looked about, looking for the medic packs, the extra food, other cots, but didn't see any.

_Wasn't he in a tent to help his bullet wound? Wasn't he shot by Germany? England… where did England go? He wasn't still out there fighting, was he? No, he carried him into here, hadn't he? And France… France was out there, fighting off the rest of them, right? Maybe England had gone to help France. No, but they were off the battle field, too far away. Why were France and England helping him? They were helping Germany, right? _America's head began to swim, little making sense. He couldn't ever remember them helping Germany, but maybe his memory wasn't quite right from the bullet.

Wait… _When did I get shot? _America thought blankly. He tried to recall, but nothing ever came to mind. Were they even in a war right now? A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was the only one in this war.

Unsure of what else he should do, America brought his hand to where he thought the wound was. Though his side felt wet, when he brought his hand to his eyes, there was nothing there.

_Where were the nurses? What was going on?_

The voices stopped. England then slithered back into the room- _when did he get back in the room? _– the bottom half of his body a snakes' tail, his upper half bare naked. He clenched a long thin pointy knife in his hand again.

Before America knew what was happening, England had grabbed his arm, and stabbed him with the knife. Oh, the fire. It consumed him once more. The light began to fade, and as his head lolled backwards, his eyes connected with England's

Distantly, it seemed, he was normal, clenching a needle and wearing modern day clothes, a look of worry plastered to his face.

"Enn….gland? W….aatz it?" America murmured.

Then everything became fuzzy yet again, and America succumbed to the blissful peace of sleep.

For once, America dreamed. He was in a house, and he could hear voices coming from the kitchen. They sounded worried and hasty.

"…can't keep him like this forever!"

"I know as well as you do that we can't keep him like this! He'll be fine soon! You'll see!"

_Was that England? Oh! That's where he was!_ America took in his surroundings with an old familiarity. England's house.

He pushed the kitchen door open and peaked his head inside.

France was sitting at a table, watching a nervous looking England pace back and forth. England looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in months, maybe even years. He was tugging at his hair, his clothes were dishevelled, and his eyes were flitting everywhere.

Meanwhile, France was looking less glamorous than usual. His hair lacked its usual lustre and shine, and his eyes actually had bags underneath them. He looked just as tired as England, and less hopeful.

"He said my name today, France! He knew who I was! He's getting better!"

"That's because you drugged him, ton tète merde." France grumbled. _France? Grumbling? Man, he must be really tired!_ America thought

"While that is true, _frog,_" England said with more hostility than usual, "he normally would just pass out. He's never opened his eyes a second time. He's getting better. You'd know that if you actually helped out more rather than moping about and complaining about lack of sleep."

France flew up from his chair. "Fermez votre gueule! I do help out! You're not the only one suffering! I change his sheets every other day! I make him food that's actually edible!"

"Edible?!" England spat, storming up to France. "What does he care about what he eats? He nearly vomits everything back out! You think you get some special medal for changing his sheets every now and then?! Try cleaning his bedpan! Or giving him a sponge bath! How about spending an hour in there when he's screaming bloody murder!"

"I would, if you didn't yell at me when I try! L'Angleterre, we're all losing our minds here. It's not okay to hold onto this!"

"'This'?! This is America we're talking about!" England yelled, fire roaring in his eyes. _Me? They're talking about me?_ America thought. _I have to use a bedpan? _America scrunched up his nose in disgust, and felt his cheeks heat up. "He's not just something we can let go of, you daft prick! Have your hair products finally melted your brain? The world can't survive without him!"

"Tu connard, your eyebrows are so big they're clouding your vision, aren't they? The world is starting to get better. It's surviving, mon amie."

"Barely," England growled, "And that's only because his place is still trading with everyone. He will make it through this! We need to keep aiding him!" England turned and resumed his pacing, his motions more frantic than the first time.

"L'Angleterre, stop kidding yourself. You know as well as I do what the most likely outcome of this whole thing will be. We will have to get by without him. There is going to be no other option."

"Like hell there is! Can you not give up on something for once in your entire existence, frog?!" America watched as England's fingers flexed. Subconsciously, America realised England was looking for a fight, he just didn't want to be the first one to throw a punch.

France sighed tiredly. "You have to let go of him. When the time comes… Without Amerique…" France left his sentence unfinished.

_Without me?! _America thought backing up. _What?! Am I… am I dead? No, I can't be dead… I can't be! That's just not it! Then… what the fuck is going on?! I have to get away! This is just a bad nightmare!_

The door stayed open, even though America wanted it to shut. He tried to turn away but found he couldn't.

"There isn't going to be a 'without America!' You know it won't happen! It's not possible! We're going to help him! Stop giving me crap, frog! You know that I- we can save him! Stop being a lazy coward for once in your worthless life, and help the sodding fool!" England screamed, stomping up to glare in France's face.

France scowled. "I'm not going to keep fighting for something that's a lost cause."

"Lost cause?! He's not a lost cause! We just have to keep trying! We can't abandon him!"

"You need to, l'Angleterre. You're holding onto a dead body!"

"He's not dead, you wanker! He's alive and we can hear him scream!"

"Why are you trying so hard, hm? You claim to hate him on a daily basis!" France spat back, changing the subject.

"Because how the hell would you feel watching the one you love go mental?!" Britain yelled, his face red and spittle flying out.

Silence filled the kitchen. Not a sound was made.

England collapsed onto France's shoulder, sobbing.

France rubbed England's back. France's face was not one of anger, or of defeat, but one of pure pity, one America had sure as hell never seen cross his face when dealing with England.

"I can't…. lose him again!... I just can't!" England sobbed into France's shirt. "Goddamn it, why?"

England curled his fists into the fabric of France's shirt, and couldn't help himself from wailing more.

France pulled England closer to his chest, and stroked his hair. America tried desperately to pull away from the scene, and found he finally could. Just as he was fading away, he could hear France mumble something to England.

"Shh, mon ami, c'est pas grave. C'est pas grave. Tu es bien. Il est va ne souffrir plus."

America lurched forward in his bed. Well, he tried to at least. His body was suspended high above a metal plate, chains wrapped around his middle and limbs.

And then he screamed.

**Hey guys! Okay, so I'm sorry for this being kind of crack-y, but there is a reason for it! (Besides the fact that I wrote most of this while I was sleep deprived. It's the best way I can get inspiration.) And you shall find out the reason when I update with the second half of this, tomorrow or so. This is only a two-shot, so nothing big. Hopefully I didn't confuse you dudes too much?**

**Review if you'd like. Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A few years prior…**_

England sighed as he stared into the hotel bathroom's mirror, straightening his tie. _Just make it through this meeting, old chap. Then, home to your friends and decent food, _he told himself.

He ran a hand down his hair, attempting to flatten it, and failing in doing so. Giving up, he left his bathroom and began to make his way to the meeting. England did one final sweep of his room, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything for his part, before landing on the window and frowning.

Snow had begun to fall, lightly dusting the ground. A week stuck in another country was bad, but it was even worse when it was stuck in _Russia_ of all places. He shuddered at the thought of becoming trapped in the country due to weather conditions, and hoped with all of his might that the snow wouldn't delay his flight.

England closed his hotel door with a sigh. Last meeting, hopefully it would go more smooth than usual.

_Yeah right._

If he was lucky, he would end up only arguing with America and hopefully no major fights with France. Even then, the meeting would still progress as if it were filled with mental patients instead of hundreds (and in some cases, thousands) of year old beings. (However, given the way most of the nations tended to act, England was beginning to highly doubt that any of them had any sanity left.)

England arrived at the designated room, grateful that they were in a hotel with a convention centre for once, so he wouldn't have to brave the cold Russian winter day that lie waiting just beyond the walls.

He took his place with his placard, seated between the United Arab Emirates, and, just his luck, the sodding United States of America. (True, he could have just blown off this entire meeting and had one of his brothers come and represent their joint nation, but then again, the meetings honestly did not need to be any more chaotic.)

England sorted out his papers, and watched as the other nations lazy drifted into the room. Italy came in, chatting away with Germany, who looked just about ready to fall asleep himself. Russia, on the other hand, looked wide awake, whether it was from the excitement of the other nations all gathering at his place or from the fear of his sister sneaking up on him, England couldn't tell. France dragged himself into the room, groggy as always from not being able to sleep in until two in the afternoon. Morocco followed behind him, sleepily rubbing her eyes and carrying in what looked like a litre of warm mint tea with her. Next time, England would have to vote to have the meeting at her place, since her hospitality was much greater than that of Russia's. (And much warmer at her place, too.)

A loud laughter broke the tired parade. England inwardly groaned. He was hoping for just a few more minutes of peace before _he_ showed up.

America came barrelling through the door, his arm slung around Canada's shoulders, a wide smile set in place. Canada was smiling politely, but it was obvious he was just as tired as the rest of them. America, on the other hand, seemed as though he never had to rest. Late to bed, and early to rise, it was as if he never shut off.

Though England would constantly complain about the energetic nation, he could help but find it endearing. (However, England would never admit this aloud, much to France's chagrin.) There were some days when the goofy smile on America's face would make England's heart soar and want to plant one on him right then and there. (And perhaps, a little more than that too.)

However, this was not one of those days, and instead England was feeling ready to slam his fist into America's face just to get him to tone down that smile, even if it was for only a little bit.

America released the uncomfortable looking Canadian from his hold, and made his way over to his seat. England frowned when he noticed the multiple bags of McDonalds in his hands.

As America took his seat, England snorted. "Trying to speed up your development of diabetes, I see," he said with a motion towards the bags.

America frowned. "Dude, just because you like to eat cardboard for breakfast doesn't mean we all don't have taste buds."

England felt his face heat up. He smacked America in the arm. "Git! I do too have taste buds! You just don't know how to appreciate fine cuisine!"

Uruguay huffed and turned to the two bickering nations. "Can you two either get a room or save it for after the meeting? The meeting's about to start."

England squawked indignantly, something about how it wasn't like that, while America shrugged and began to dig into one of his many McMuffins.

Once everyone seemed to be in the room, Russia called the meeting to order. The first nation up to speak that day was Denmark, who strode up to the microphone with confidence. "Hey guys! So being the awesome nation I am, I don't have much trouble! Ha! Sucks to be all of you! Ah, but recently, the demographic deficit..."

England pulled out a pen and some paper. True, Denmark could be annoying as hell, he was speaking on a topic that England actually took interest in. (After all, Denmark had been able to help his nation growth in recent years.)

England focused his eyes to the front. Meanwhile, America finished his first breakfast sandwich, and pulled out two more.

"Okay, so what the coolest plan of action-" _crumple_ "-be, is to start teaching-" _crunch _"-to the kids, and paying-" _smack, smack, smack _"which would help influence people to-" _gulp. Crunch. Smack, smack smack. _Oh England was going to kill America.

"Would you cut that out?!" England hissed at America, knocking the muffin out of his hand.

"Dude! You owe me a buck now!" America whined, but set his bag of food down.

_Please lord, if I make it out of this without brutally maiming him, let them switch the seats to region rather than name,_ England prayed, looking forward once more.

"Denmark, if you could keep the profanity out of your speech-" Germany began to say

"Oh, yeah! Sure, no prob! Where was I? Oh yeah! Now, I've kind of realised that not everywhere is having the same trouble as Europe, with our people not doing the hanky-panky as often as needed, but this plan could help other nations that-" _Sluuuuuurrrrp._

Oh god why.

England refused to make eye contact with America. He was certain the younger nation was doing this just to piss him off. Who the hell could slurp a milkshake so loud?!

"- and then we could have mixing people-" _slurp _"- and share cro-"_ sluuuurrrrp _"-the economies-"_sluuurrrrp _"- so there's like no reason to deny this awesome pla-"_cough._

England couldn't help but smile when he heard America gag. _Serves the wanker right_, England thought. He kept his eyes trained forward, basking in his amusement. For now. He would gloat in a little bit.

However, America kept coughing. England almost put his head down on the table, defeat in actually listening to the speech, when Uruguay spoke up. "Whoa! America, are you okay?!"

"He's just getting his karma for eating too much, Uruguay, no need to be so alarmed," England replied, shuffling his papers. Ignoring England, Uruguay stood up and ran from the room.

America continued to hack, and soon the countries in front of them turned around to see what was going on. When England looked forward, he hadn't been expecting the horror on their faces.

Finally, England turned to look at America, and his jaw dropped.

America's face dripped with blood, his straw stained red, his drink crushed in his left hand. His right hand was pressed to his mouth, trying to stifle the coughs, his hand becoming a deeper shade of red with each jerk of his body. His body was bent in half, and England watched as droplets ran down his chin into his white button up.

"H-hey! Oh god, Alfred!" England yelled, effectively gaining the attention of the rest of the room. Whatever Denmark's plan for the demographic deficit had been had put the room into an up roar, but now it fell silent, save for the American's hacks.

With the attention turned on him, America attempted to stand and run from the room, only for his legs to give out and clutch at the table in a desperate attempt to hold himself up. His bloodied hand left a red stain on the white table cloth. His glazed eyes looked up to England's. The American tried to speak, but only red gurgle shot from his mouth.

England stood from his chair and attempted to pull America up, shouldering his right arm and leaning the younger nation's weight on him. With a grunt, England tried to heave the heavy American up, only to fall back down. "Dammit… he's too heavy…" England grunted.

"Don't!" America rasped, giving England a horrific sight of his horror-movie-like teeth. He gripped England's shoulder, a wild look in his eyes. Then, America doubled over and vomited on the floor. England was slightly aware of the other nations bustling about in a panic, but could only see the usually care-free nation purging out blood and stomach acid like there was no tomorrow in front of him.

England felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Japan kneeling next to him. "Atomic bomb…" Japan whispered.

England felt his stomach drop. Japan didn't need to elaborate, he understood what he meant.

Uruguay returned with Canada (when had he run out?) who was carrying a stretcher. The four of them gently picked up the sputtering nation, and placed him on the stretcher. England and Canada carried him out, running through the lobby, and into the main building of the hotel, rushing to the nearest hotel room. Nicely enough, it happened to be Canada's.

Once inside, they placed America on the bed. Canada turned the television on, and immediately flipped to the news.

A woman was speaking in frantic Russian, gesturing to the video footage behind her. A mushroom shaped cloud rose above the earth, consuming everything in its path. America moaned on the bed behind the two befuddled nations, before spewing more.

"So many dead…" he whimpered.

Canada was quick to grab America a trash can, before popping onto his computer to check the news there, too. A little hard to understand what had happened when it was in a foreign language.

As Canada surfed for information, England sat down on the bed next to America. England could nearly hear his own heart crack as he watched the nation whimper before coughing out more body fluids.

"Oh my god…" Canada whispered.

Just as England was about to ask what, a knock sounded at the door. Canada crossed the room, and opened the door to a grave looking Germany.

He looked like he was holding the world on his shoulders, his face hanging with the burdens and despair from all the corners of the earth. His eyes skimmed over the room, lingering on America, before locking eyes with England.

"An atomic bomb has been dropped on a small town in America," Germany reported, his voice like static. "Once they find the culprits, America is to declare war and ask for his allies' assistance."

The next two weeks were a blur of chaos. America was immediately sent back home to Washington D.C., so he could be with his boss. Canada followed closely behind, vowing to stay near him if he needed to be moved at any point. America was still coughing up blood when he left, but his mind was more sound, and he was able to stand upright on his own.

All of the countries who considered themselves close allies with America prepared their soldiers, weapons, or – in some cases- neutrality declarations.

However, when the culprits were found, the world seemed to stand still. It was revealed that the missile which had hit the small innocent Pennsylvanian town had been one of America's own missiles, so-called 'accidently' dropped from the plane carrying it. Which left two options for the citizens: terrorists, or they're own government was trying to kill and/or subdue them.

Cue complete madness.

The people demanded justice for the half-million killed. They began to turn on the government and each other. They feared their own neighbours being terrorists. Riots and protests broke out in the streets, and national force was called out to stop the fear.

However, with the added panic of the National Guard turning on them, the citizens were certain it was their own government who had dropped the bomb now, and on purpose too.

Government officials worked to calm the masses, sweating in their suits in front of the cameras and offering empty words of comfort. Few bought into their speeches, so it was time for the government officials to come up with something clever.

A cunning Congress man from Connecticut saw the madness as a perfect opportunity to try and win votes for the upcoming election. He blamed the entire opposing political party for the dropping of the bomb, claiming it was a political strategy to over throw the government and install fear into the people.

His claim caused another outcry in the country, and from the opposing party as well. A wicked senator from Arizona decided to switch the story around on the first party, claiming that it was their attempt at hiding their own behaviour.

And so, began the utter insanity of the nation beginning to rip itself to pieces. The citizens felt as though they couldn't trust a Republican or a Democrat. They feared their friends- believing them to be in cahoots with the fear-plan.

As the country dissolved into a Civil War, the world refused to get involved. Most saw it in the best interest to step back, and let the country sort itself out. (After all, any involvement could make it look aggressive, and just because only one tiny bomb had been dropped, didn't mean that America had lost all of its' bombs. The president could still issue war.)

America- who watched the chaos evolve on TV and felt it grow inside of him- became sicker and sicker with every passing day. Thankfully, Canada had seen it fit to move America into his own house for a little while.

At first, America protested, claiming he could take care of himself. Just as he was in the middle of his 'I'm the awesome-hero and I can make it out this' speech, pain wracked his body, and he doubled over. He slammed his hand into his forehead, crying out with pain. A single blood-red line has formed down his forehead, stopping at the bridge of his nose. Droplets of red had begun to drip down his face. Canada refused to hear any opposition after that.

However, with the trouble so close by, Canada and his boss began to work tirelessly to keep his own borders safe. Not only was Canada getting less sleep from the constant work, but he found himself spending whatever hours he had free watching America, making sure that the crack didn't spread further, and if it did, treating the new developing wound. Without America's knowledge, Canada had called England in hopes of moving America to his house.

England was hesitant at first. True, he had called Canada almost every other day to check up on the two of them, and he was following America news like a bloodhound on a fresh trail, but he wasn't sure if America would have been okay with it all.

"Please, England! I don't think he'll be safe here. Plus, you'll be able to get more sleep than I've been getting, because you can switch out with another nation at any time. I'm a little isolated here." Canada begged.

England hesitated. He would certainly feel much better watching over the boy himself, but the idea of other nations popping in to help him… "Are you suggesting that I let _Francis_ of all people stay in my house as well?"

"It doesn't have to be France! Any nation over there that you feel comfortable with popping over every now and then. England, please let him come. Do this for America. For Alfred."

Damn that boy and his ability to tug at his heartstrings.

And so, America was moved over to England's house. He didn't mind much, in all honesty. Actually, Canada was even more worried by the lack of protesting from the nation. He expected a struggle, an argument, something to show that he was still himself, but that wasn't the case. America had given a weak nod, said "Whatevar ya say, cap'n," and promptly walked into the bathroom to purge out his insides for the millionth time that day.

When they arrived at England's, however, America boosted Canada's hopes by putting up a small fight. "What? No, Mattie, you're staying, right? You're not going to leave me, right?" America had asked, his head swivelling between the concerned looking England and the weary Canadian.

Canada sighed and removed his glasses to rub between his eyes, feeling about ready to pass out. "Al… America, I need to get back to my boss. We're stressed too. We'll be able to help you more from over there. 'Sides, England will be able to watch you more than I can. And he'll be able to change your bandages more than I can, so they won't be so painful. You'll be fine."

To England's surprise, America looked about ready to cry. _Is he that upset over the prospect of being here with me?_ England thought. If England were to be brutally honest with himself, he had been about ready to sob himself when he saw America get out of the taxi. He hadn't seen him since the meeting about six months prior, and it was as if a completely different man were standing before him.

America was dangerously thin, looking like he hadn't had a decent meal in months. His hair was dull and straw like. He walked almost as if he needed a cane, but was too proud to use one. (Probably learned that trick from FDR, no doubt.) But the thing that shattered England's heart was America's face. Canada had mentioned the crack, but never mentioned its progress, despite England's inquiring about it. Now he knew why. The crack had spread from his forehead, down his nose, branching out onto his cheeks, and travelled down his chin, along his neck, and the rest hid under the clothes. It had scabbed over, so it was no longer oozing blood, but from the way Canada spoke, that didn't seem to be the case in other areas.

England snapped back into where he was. America stared helplessly at Canada, before his expression hardened.

"Fine. Go ahead. Leave. I don't need to be watched like a child anyway." America turned and began to storm down the hall. "You'll see. I'll get through this! I don't need your help anyway! I'm already getting better! Yeah! You know what, I think I'll be ready to leave by tomorrow! There's no way I'm spending any longer here- andwhyistheroomtilting?"

England rushed forward and caught the nation before he could hit the floor. Canada ran to the room set up for America to grab the special medication. England gently laid America down on the floor, resting the American's head in his lap. He stared down at his face, watching as his eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth frothing, before his eyes slowly crept back out.

"Enn….gland? W….aatz it?" America muttered, slowly blinking and looking up.

Canada returned with a syringe. "Here," he said, handing it to England. "It'll make him pass out for a bit, but it always helps with the pain. We can just move him afterwards."

England took the syringe and looked up at Canada. How the teen had seemed to age in just six months. He looked weighed down by millions of troubles, but still offered a smile to encourage England. _God bless his soul_, England thought.

England looked back down at America. He was watching England with unfocused eyes, as if he was trying to see through a haze.

England rolled up America's sleeve, exposing his bare forearm. He frowned, taking in the state of the arm. "I think I'll end up stabbing through to the bone," he murmured.

"You won't," Canada reassured. "He has more meat on him than you think."

America suddenly shot his arm upwards, pointing at a space right beside Canada. "Aahrem!" he yelled, his eyes swimming.

England glanced over to Canada, who shrugged in return. Meaning, he had no idea either.

Slowly, England lowered America's arm, drew up some skin, and injected the needle.

"O-ow. Hey, that hurt, ya biiiigg bully Briitt," America said, rolling his head side to side. "Big bully Brit. Biiiiigggg bullyBrit. Big BULLY…. Brit," He sang, before closing his eyes. He hummed to himself some more before he drifted off into a slumber.

England leaned back on his arms, and blew air out of his mouth. "Geez, mate. If I had known he was this bad, I would have jumped in sooner."

"It's okay," Canada said, looking past England and down to America. His eyes held an emptiness and something else that England couldn't quite place.

The room was silent afterwards, save for America's light snoring. England watched America in his forced sleep. He studied the dark circles under America's eyes, the way his face looked relaxed and carefree, unlike how it had been lately. He took note of the cracks, and how they ran over his skin as if etched in with blades. His mouth was parted, letting out tiny huffs of air instead of loud laughter.

Finally, Canada coughed and motioned upstairs. England nodded, and hoisted the sleeping nation's upwards. Canada grabbed America's legs, and together, they carefully climbed the stairs, before reaching the bedroom set up for him. They gently placed him on the bed, and England wrapped a blanket about America.

Canada motioned his head towards the door. "I'm going to go call my boss to find out what happened. He hasn't had a major delusion like that in a while."

"Delusion?" England questioned, turning round to face Canada.

Canada nodded. "Yeah. If something big happens with his people, he begins to see things, but he always denies it afterwards. I think he's trying to hide what he's been seeing, in all honesty. Excuse me." Canada's cell phone rang, letting out a shrill tune that England didn't recognise. The Canadian clicked on his phone. "Hey boss, I was just about to call you…" Canada said, exiting the room.

England turned back to America, half expecting him to be sitting up. To England's dismay, he was still out cold.

England sighed and sat down in the chair next to the bed. "Don't worry lad, I'll take care of you. You'll be fine."

For the next week, America stayed dormant, only waking for an hour or so each day to utter nonsense. His people had become extraordinarily violent, beginning to fire guns at one another. Police had attempted to calm them, but only ended up making the situation worse, leading to more hysteria and panic.

After the first month of England taking care of America, France ended up popping in to check on the two of them, by Canada's request. When he arrived, he couldn't tell who was more mental- America, from his situation, or England, who was delirious from lack of sleep and besieged over the ill nation. France had forced England to eat a decent meal (cooked by France, of course. In France's words, they didn't need a burnt down house on top of everything else,) and to sleep, while he took to taking care of America for a bit.

England had protested for a total of five minutes, before succumbing to the prospect of food and sleep. He had fallen asleep dressed in his full attire, promising to be awake in half an hour so he could 'properly take care of the American, thank you very much.'

Of course, France had instantly disarmed the alarm clock, tossing it carelessly against a pile of neglected laundry, something that severely surprised France. Usually, England kept his house in tip-top shape, dust never able to find a home in the nooks and crannies of his knick-knacks. Now, it seemed as if everything were completely disorganised. Piles of dirty dishes covered the counters in the kitchen. Dust bunnies crawled across the floors, and cobwebs dropped from the ceilings. The laundry had piled up to be drastic amounts, and France wondered how England and America still had clean clothes left to wear.

While England slept, France set about cleaning, at least getting the worst of it done. After a couple of hours, he decided he needed to check up on America. He didn't' see the fuss in constantly watching the boy the way England had. However, to France's shock and horror, he discovered that the ill-nation had bled through the shirt he was wearing, his fingers subconsciously tearing at the fabric in his sleep.

Impulsively, France began to remove the shirt, minding the wires hooked up to America. (Where England had been able to access IVs, France was clueless, but decided not to question it.) The bandages that had once been tied tightly around America's middle had been torn off, exposing the expanding crack that encircled his middle. Blood seeped through the tear in skin, and it was obvious that at some point crude stitches had been attempted to fix it, but had failed miserably.

The French nation rewrapped up the sick country, wincing as he did so. In the midst of putting on the clean bandage, the sleeping nation's eyes popped open. He sat straight up, earning a yelp from France.

He turned to France, and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close. "They're coming, don't let them in!" He yelled frantically, his eyes whipping back and forth.

"Qui?" France asked, pushing away from America. However, his grip was strong enough to hold France in place.

America whined in response. "They're here. Get the away from the corners. Don't let them there- no! Shit! Please let me go please let me go please let me go! HELP!" America screamed, releasing France, and jumping off the bed. His IVs fell to the ground, and were pulled along with him. He pressed his back against the wall and put his fists up. "Fine! I'll take you all!" He threw punches at invisible people, yelling out when he was apparently struck.

France could only watch in shock and confusion. Did he dare try to intervene? What if he got punched? Would it still hurt like hell?- after all, it was one from America.

"America!" France turned around, and faced a seething England in the doorway. He surged forward, grabbed a needle from the night stand, and slowly approached the crazed nation.

"Hold still, lad, it's alright. I'm not going to hurt you. They're not real. You're going to be fine," England murmured, the flailing nation hardly taking note of the guy with the needle.

Before France could register what was happening, England tackled America from the side, jabbing the needle into his arm. America squirmed under the weight, but then slowly began to drift back into sleep.

After America was calmed, England turned back on France. "You!" he growled, seeming to fly up to France's face.

The hour long rant that England fired at France ensured France to never disturb the odd schedule England had put himself on ever again.

After a year and a half, the pattern the four nations had fallen into continued at what seemed normal. France would visit England once a week, taking over up until it was time to give America his medication, at which point England insisted that he do it, which France didn't argue with. Canada continued to work with his boss and the American president to figure out a way to calm the nation and reinstitute order. (The 'second Civil War of America' as the world was calling it had developed not only into a political and violent war, but also one of pent of rage over issues that had been pressing on the citizens for years.) Twice a month, Canada would arrive at England's house to check up on his brother's state.

America, on the other hand, seemed to be doing progressively worse. The crack had stopped growing after it reached his pelvis, but had continued to bleed consecutively. He would wake every day, and yell, and sometimes also move. It still scared France when he would hear it, but England was becoming accustomed to it.

However, America stopped waking up after a few months. England became fretful, checking the nation every hour to make sure he was still alive. It came to the point of England attaching a heart monitor to the American, fearful of the beeping ever stopping.

On one cold February day, it happened that France and Canada were at England's on the same day. The three were huddled in the living room, silent and watching the news, each eating their own respect soup.

After finished with his bowl, England stood to place it in the kitchen and then go check on his patient. As he was leaving the room, he was caught in his footsteps by a simple seeming story.

"Breaking news from the United States! Even with all of the recent chaos, there is still miracles that can happen in these times," the anchor-woman had said. "Recently, a five year old boy has been caught on camera at rallies in Washington D.C., lifting massive loads of weight- some as even heavy as vehicles. When asked about his family, he simply shrugged and said he didn't have parents, but felt he was home. That was the only statement that anyone has been able to hear from the boy. It has been believed that the boy is an orphan, but it appears he is trying to be the super hero from America. Just look at his cute outfit!" Footage was then shown of the boy lifting a car straight over his head and yelling.

All three nations froze. The cute outfit the woman had been discussing was one that all three recognised. That any country would recognise: the outfit of a new, child nation.

"Oh mon dieu," France whispered.

Canada's mouth opened and closed, trying to find something to say and failing.

England's brain went to static. He dropped his bowl, letting it shatter against the floor. France and Canada turned to him, but he instantly turned away, and walked out of the room.

He calmly walked down the hall, up the stairs, and let his feet carry him away. He entered his bedroom, shut the door, and locked it. He stood for a few minutes, staring off into space, before pressing his back against the door. He slid down the door continuing to stare at the air in front of him.

He could hear France and Canada calling for him, and he was pretty sure his magical friends were trying to comfort him too, but he wasn't paying them any attention.

_There was a new nation. In America. Living, involved in rallies. Meaning there was probably another one in another part of the nation. Neither side had broken off from the main land. But it could happen. And the heart monitor was still going a few rooms over. That could change. But America wasn't dead yet. Yet._

And then England screamed.

**Wow, I am so sorry I actually suck at updating. I meant to post this last Friday (the 21****st****) but it was both my prom and birthday, so I had to do some stuff for that. This was going to be a two-shot, but as you can tell, this chapter ended up being a bit longer than intended. So a three shot it is! Hopefully I can get the last chapter up by next weekend.**

**Review if ya'd like, it helps me know if this is actually worth continuing or not. Until then, tootles!**


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